


A Case of You

by Frangipanidownunder



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-04
Updated: 2018-08-04
Packaged: 2019-06-21 23:20:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15568578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frangipanidownunder/pseuds/Frangipanidownunder
Summary: Mulder and Scully are stuck in the basement due to some kind of threat and Scully drinks a little too much and starts singing Joni Mitchell’s A Case of You. Set early season 7.





	A Case of You

The basement. Spooky’s den. Home of the FBI’s most unwanted. It’s ironic really, she thinks, letting the brandy burn her throat a moment before swallowing, it’s ironic that this room should be the place where her life really began, and it will be the place where it will end. Mulder’s bristled chin rubs her neck and she turns into his embrace, chest to chest, heart to heart.

“I remember that time you told me, you said ‘love is touching souls’…” She whispers into his mouth.

From above, there’s a boom, scattering glass, alarms blaring. The ceiling rattles, chunks of plaster raining down, yelling, screaming, sirens. But the noise that sticks in her ears is the guttural moan from Mulder.

And she can’t tell if he’s laughing or crying.

Earlier

She’s seriously debating whether death by PowerPoint is actually worse than death by slideshow. There was a certain charm about his overhead projector with its dusty chemical smell and beam of blue light, the awkward moment of an empty slide case whirring past to show nothing but an empty square or the sometimes back-to-front or upside image that creates hilarity where seriousness is due. Mulder had often inserted blank slides to deliberately make a point but the effect of a blank PowerPoint image is just not the same. It’s just an irritating waste of time. It’s too late for his shit. They’re here, on a Thursday evening, past eight, because he wanted to show her something.

She’s doodling on the back of a coaster and debating whether he really should be back working. Just the other day, she asked him to join her at her mom’s for Christmas and he said yes then phoned her at 2am to decline. Fowley’s death has hit him hard. He told her she was his constant, his touchstone. But he’s been up and down since. He clicks the next slide and she hums an old tune that’s stuck in her head. I am as constant as a northern star.

There’s a moment when he looks at her, like he’s hearing what she’s singing. Like he’s back in that place, the voices. Joni Mitchell. Does he like that kind of music? She should probably know. But she doesn’t.

A blush creeps over her. He’s staring at her, seeing into her head. “Mulder, can you get to the point? Is this a case or are you just inviting me to look at your debateable graphic design skills?”

His finger is tapping against his lip now, that tell-tale sign he’s about to reveal the punchline, to announce that they’re heading to Bumfuck, Alabama to investigate foul smelling rain falling in a back yard or eyeless children creeping around the school gates or…but his cell rings and before he can answer she hears Skinner barking orders.

There’s something about the way he ends the call that alerts her. His demeanour changes in an instant. He’s back in the moment. She stands, walks to close the gap between the as he closes the laptop and heads to the door. His fingers grip the handle, the lights flicker then switch off. The quiet is unnerving. Her chest is tight, the vein in his temple throbs.

“Mulder?”

There’s that tune again, running around her head. You’re in my blood like holy wine. He locks the door and presses his back against it. Above them, she hears footsteps, heavy like troops. The crackle of gunfire. Yelling. Instinctively, she reaches for her weapon. Mulder’s already thumbing his and he nods to the back of the room, where the overcrowded filing cabinets offer some protection. Between them they push one across the door then snake their way through the shelves and detritus of years of Mulder’s work. Boxes of files. Old equipment. Rotary dial phones, a record player, an old radio, a CB set, the slide projector. She lets her eyes linger on it, looking for comfort in its presence.

“Armed intruders,” he whispers. “Dozens of them.”

She sinks besides him. Her chest is rising and falling rapidly and her throat is dry, constricted. But he’s calm, sleeves rolled up, breathing even, mouth set. She can see his brain cranking into gear, planning. Maybe she’s underestimated him, his readiness. Mulder’s always ready. Her mind skips again. That melody, haunting. And I’m drawn to those ones that ain’t afraid. She takes a deeper breath, trying to steady her nerves and remember her training. They’ve been in tougher situations. They’ve got each other’s backs. Whatever has come between them, mutants, monsters, men. Old lovers.

“It’s okay, Scully,” he says, grabbing her wrist. He must notice the tremble but says nothing. “Skinner said they might have some kind of explosive device. Maybe something chemical. I think we’re in the best spot here.”

In the basement with Mulder. It’s a pretty damned good spot, she thinks to herself, suddenly able to see the bigger picture. That they’re together down here because it’s meant to be. Like they’re written for this part, nobody else could do it better. It’s like that song says, you’re in my blood like holy wine.

“What was that?” he asks, turning towards her, lit only with the pale glow from his phone screen. “Joni Mitchell?”

Of course he knows, she thinks. “A Case of You. Oh I could drink a case of you darling, And I would still be on my feet, I would still be on my feet. It’s a beautiful song,” she says, half singing the lyric, but realising how out of tune she is, how out of place her singing down here is. “It’s been on my mind, not sure why.”

He taps out a number on his phone and smiles at her, teeth and all. The one that makes her heart flutter a little. The charming one, the one he uses to empathise with victims, to pacify a perp before cutting into him with the truth about his crimes. Now, he’s using it to comfort her, show her that he’s listening, tell her that he’s with her. The phone tries to connect, but its useless bleeping goes nowhere.

“Lines are down,” he says and before she can swear, adds, “I used to love Joni Mitchell. I always thought Samantha would have grown up loving her too, would have been front row at concerts when she was old enough. Would probably still be listening to her now. Don’t it always seem to go, that you don’t know what you’ve got til it’s gone.”

His voice is breathy and she feels drawn towards him like she’s in some kind of ridiculous, end of the world, confessional. She’s about to put her hand on his knee when above them a muted boom and a series of louder cracks forces them to their feet. He’s close to her, holding her really, arms folded around her shoulders. There are shapes in the gloom, looming around them, even though, logically she knows they’re in the basement and these are the shelves and filing cabinets she’s spent years with. But Mulder is solid and real and present. She feels his chest moving up and down and she wonders if he can feel the hammering of her heart. It’s stark, how frightened she is. She shrugs further into him, unable to focus.

“We need a plan, Scully. We can’t stay down here waiting for the ceiling to cave in.”

Waiting for the end of the world, she thinks. “You said this was the safest spot.” There’s an edge to her voice again. Panic clawing at her chest to escape.

“Not if we end up under eight storeys of masonry.”

“We have no idea where the intruders are, how many of them there are, what their intentions are, how many casualties. It would be madness to leave, Mulder.” Let me stay here, with you.

His fingers find hers and he squeezes her hand, bringing it to his thigh and holding it steady there. He starts crooning and she sinks into him. “Cause I’ve seen some hot hot blazes, Come down to smoke and ash, We love our lovin’, But not like we love our freedom. That’s some spookily appropriate lyrical magic there, Scully. Help Me from Court and Spark. 1974. Her biggest hit single. A year after Samantha disappeared and a year before this building was finished. Perhaps there’s something in that.” His face is close to hers. His rambling trivia is a deflection, a way to give her time to come back to herself.

She sucks in a long breath. “I think we see patterns where we want to, it’s comforting to us,” she says, lifting their clasped hands up between them. The lights flicker and she sees his face in a brief flash. “The record label was Asylum. Does that mean anything?” He laughs and the concrete sound of it pulls her out of the boggy feeling of inertia. “What are we doing down here, Mulder? Why are we in the basement? We’ve had plenty of chances to get out.”

“Maybe, deep down, we don’t want to leave. Maybe this is where we belong. You must have had a strong suspicion that I was mad before you took the assignment to be in this basement with me and here we are, reciting Joni Mitchell lyrics while the building burns.” His lips pull open and he smiles again, looking down at her. “Must be love, Scully.”

There’s a powerful rush of emotion, of strength in the exchange. It would be so easy to stay here, hands locked together, until the roof caves in but her nerves spark back into life, limbs waking, brain engaging. And I’m sending you out, This signal here, I hope you can pick it up, Loud and clear.

“CB radio, Mulder. Can we contact the Gunmen? They’ll know what’s happening outside. I saw your old kit back here somewhere.”

He rifles through shelves, pulling down box after box. “CB won’t work down here, Scully, no line of sight, but I’ve got an old ham radio kit somewhere. We should be able to use VHF.”

Under the light of their phone screens, they shift stuff from the shelf to make space for the radio. There are shoe boxes of grainy photos and shreds of fabric and horrific stuffed toys and spent light bulbs. There’s a marionette and a pair of muddy boots and a jewellery box with a ballerina stuck on a whirring carousel that doesn’t play music any more. That’s what she feels like in the basement. They’re turning round and round and there’s no orchestra to play for them anymore. At that moment there’s another explosion, louder and the ceiling rattles, plaster dropping down.

“Shit,” she yells, covering her ears. “I don’t want to die in the basement, Mulder.”

He stops what he’s doing and rolls his hands on her shoulders. “I can’t promise you that but there’s a bottle of brandy in the desk drawer. That might take the edge off.”

“Cheers?” she says with a shrug and takes a hot gulp.

He does the same and sings, “You’re as smooth as Tennessee whiskey, You’re as sweet as strawberry wine, You’re as warm as a glass of brandy.”

“Joni Mitchell?” she says, taking another swig.

“George Jones,” he grins. “You like country, Scully?”

“If we do make it out of here, I’ll dance to Achy Breaky Heart wearing a cowboy hat and leather boots,” she says.

“If we make it out of here, we’ll scoot our boots in Kersh’s office.”

He sets up the radio on a low shelf, under the light of his phone screen. The crackle of static punctuates the creeping silence. The alcohol has softened her fear, or maybe it’s Mulder’s voice sending out an SOS, calling for help. There’s no response. He slides back down next to her, taking another swig from the bottle.

“Is this it, Mulder?”

The basement. Spooky’s den. Home of the FBI’s most unwanted. It’s ironic really, she thinks, letting the brandy burn her throat a moment before swallowing, it’s ironic that this room should be the place where her life really began, and it will be the place where it will end. Mulder’s bristled chin rubs her neck and she turns into his embrace, chest to chest, heart to heart.

“I remember that time you told me, you said ‘love is touching souls’…” She whispers into his mouth.

From above, there’s a boom, scattering glass, alarms blaring. The ceiling rattles, chunks of plaster raining down, yelling, screaming, sirens. But the noise that sticks in her ears is the guttural moan from Mulder.

And she can’t tell if he’s laughing or crying. But she’s pretty sure he told her he loves her.

He’s holding something behind his back and wearing a grin that’s beyond shit-eating. She thinks about that darkness in the office, the dust and the detritus and how that smile would surely have lit up the entire basement floor so they could have walked out rather than be stretchered out.

“Back to red, Scully?”

She touches her hair and smiles back. “At least I’ll know what you look like with snow white hair.”

“You make it sound like we might still know each other in thirty years.” He sits on the bed, still holding onto his secret.

“Working with you, I might be grey in five, Mulder.”

He leans in close and pecks her cheek, lingering perhaps a little longer than propriety would suggest, being that they’re in a hospital room and Skinner is standing at the door. “How’s the leg?”

“Still broken,” she says, nodding to Skinner. “Come in, sir.”

“Agent Scully, it’s good to see you looking well.” Skinner stands, hands clasped. “All suspects are reported to have died in the explosion. Plus twenty others, agents, cleaners and security. Looks like being in the basement saved you.”

“Who’d have thought, huh, Scully?”

“Mulder, what are you hiding?”

He swings his arm around in a dramatic flourish. “Just a little something for you.” He puts the package between them.

“It’s a box,” she says, Mulder-style.

“Open it,” he says, looking back at Skinner.

“I wouldn’t, Scully,” Skinner says, shaking his head.

The white tissue paper crunches as she pulls it back to reveal a Stetson. “Mulder…”

“You promised.”

“I thought I was going to die.”

“And yet,” he says, pulling the hat out and placing it on her head, tucking strands of hair behind her ears, “here you are.”

“Suits you, Agent,” Skinner says, finally sitting in the spare chair. “He’s got boots too, you know. He’s even got hold of Kersh’s diary to see when he’s out of the way so you two can do…whatever it is you said you were going to do…”

She tugs the tip of hat and blushes at what Skinner probably thinks they’re going to do. She’s too tired to correct his wild assumption and she can’t take Mulder’s moment from him. He’s so happy, she thinks, sitting on her bed, teasing her. “Boot scooting in Kersh’s office? Really?”

Skinner breathes out a heavy sigh and she laughs at his awkward relief. Mulder gets up and Skinner stands. “We’ll work something out, Scully. You can’t go back on your word.”

Skinner leaves and Mulder lingers at the door, before walking back to her side and kissing her on the mouth. “I’m not going back on mine either, Scully. I love you.”

As he leaves, he sings, “Don’t break my heart…”


End file.
